Chapter 29 - Dahlia
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE- DAHLIA
Dahlia sat in the front parlor the next morning. Sun filtered in through the window, setting a golden halo around her head.
"Is today to be more of the same, then?" Rachel flounced into a chair near the bookcase. "Watching these men trying to impress you?"
Dahlia shook her head. "You don’t have to sit with me if you don't wish. Aunt Janie is here."
The aforementioned aunt had her nose buried in some writing project that she'd been working on endlessly as of late. She barely acknowledged them with a flap of her hand without so much as lifting her head.
"I wouldn't miss this for anything. I have it on excellent authority that things are about to get extremely interesting," Rachel said.
Dahlia's forehead crinkled. "Whatever do you mean?"
"I'm not going to spoil the surprise. You'll have to wait and see yourself."
"Please tell me that you didn't let an animal loose in the house again." Dahlia glanced around nervously, fighting the urge to lift her feet.
"Nothing that happens today will be of my doing."
"Is this some word trickery? Is this you trying to foist responsibility onto a badger?"
"Speaking of badgers," Rachel said—she’d dodged her question, Dahlia noticed—"I found the perfect specimen in a shop the other day."
"It's sad that I'm hoping for another dead animal, not a live one."
"Oh, it's quite dead," Rachel said cheerfully. "But the artist put it on its hind legs with its claws outstretched. It's very fearsome looking."
"What is it standing on?"
"A little iron plate. I think there may be wire threaded through its limbs, but I don't want to try to change it into a different position and end up snapping its arm off. Not before what I have planned."
Dahlia sighed. If she were a better elder sister, she’d find out what on earth Rachel was going to do with the animal.
She couldn't bring herself to ask—it was probably best she didn't know.
Besides, she had quite enough on her plate with the Season now in full swing, without trying to prevent her sister's harmless tomfoolery.
Dahlia fluffed her skirts and settled them in a more pleasing arrangement. She’d chosen her outfit today with great care. She wore a dove-grey silk satin day dress with pearl buttons down the front of the jaunty waistcoat. The shirt was fine white lace, unlined at the neck and collar.
She thought the outfit was quite handsome and daring. It reminded her of a man's suit, but with all the feminine touches appropriate to a lady. Mara had pulled her hair back into a pleasing arrangement of curls and braids, with several strands left to frame her face.
Rachel wore a fine worsted wool day dress of navy blue with silver edging along the neckline.
Though her first ball had been just as successful as Dahlia's in terms of how many gentlemen had asked her to dance, she’d frowned at each and every one of them the entire time.
Dahlia had been close enough in one instance to overhear Rachel expressly forbidding the gentleman from calling on her the next day.
Dahlia fought the urge to encourage her to behave differently.
If Rachel did not wish to be married, then it was better for gentlemen to know that at the outset.
If she didn’t wish to be married, no one should force it.
Trying to change Rachel would be like asking the Thames to flow in a different direction—a great, messy undertaking, practically impossible without an act of God.
Besides, Rachel seemed quite happy with her books, her friendships, and her strange little hobbies. If Dahlia had detected a hint of ennui or sadness, or if she’d thought that Rachel was avoiding courtship out of fear, she would have done more to change her outlook.
Though Rachel was strange according to societal standards, she had an excellent mind, and she knew herself better than most young ladies did. It would take a very special man indeed to coax her into the married state. Much like Rachel, Dahlia was uncertain as to whether such a gentleman existed.
"Very well," Dahlia said. "Stay if you like, but please try to refrain from hissing at my guests like you did yesterday."
"It was only the one time. And Lord Dawson was being such a bore. Honestly, he deserved it."
Dahlia couldn't help but privately agree with her. The man had been going on about his requirements for a wife, and none of them fit Dahlia at all. He’d explicitly said that he preferred brunettes to blondes, and looked her over with a judgemental gaze as if she might be able to change her hair color on a whim.
Rachel added, "The hissing made him go away very quickly, which was the entire point."
"You alarmed Lord Harris at the same time, though."
"If he’s not sturdy enough to handle a little hissing—which wasn't even aimed his direction, I might add—then he certainly isn't strong enough to become your husband. You should cross him out immediately."
Dahlia blinked. "How do you know about my list?"
"You really should invest in better locks if you don't want people to meddle in your private affairs."
Dahlia looked heavenwards and sighed. "The presence of a lock is enough to keep normal people from prying.”
"Normal." Rachel scoffed at the word and scrunched her nose in distaste. "Heaven forbid the day arrive when I’m described as normal."
Dahlia laughed.
Bernard appeared in the doorway. "Lord Francis to see Miss Dahlia Warrington," he intoned.
She nodded at him. As opposed to prior years, Dahlia had told the butler that nearly every visitor was to be admitted, except for a very short list, which he and the footmen had memorized.
Lord Francis ducked into the room moments later, still smoothing his blond hair back from his forehead. He clutched a tidy bouquet of white cabbage roses in one hand.
"Good morning, ladies." He gave a deep, courtly bow and a winning smile, then crossed to stand before Dahlia and presented her with the blooms. "Miss Warrington, you are looking exceptionally lovely today."
Dahlia couldn't help but notice that Rachel was opening and closing her mouth in a ridiculous affectation of Lord Francis's speech behind his back.
Dahlia pressed her lips together and did her best not to laugh.
The man did open his mouth far enough to glimpse his molars on every word.
When he spoke, he rather looked like a marionette.
Although she’d said that Rachel didn’t need to attend her this morning, Dahlia was grateful for her presence all the same. Her sister brought a levity to this process that sometimes was absent otherwise.
"Thank you, Lord Francis." Dahlia gestured at the chair at her left. "Please be seated. Would you like some tea?"
Dahlia nodded at the maid standing near the door, and the young lady hustled out to fetch a tray. It was one of the most difficult parts of courting, Dahlia had realized—the amount of liquid she was supposed to drink in order to be polite.
Yet there was no polite way to tell a roomful of gentlemen that she needed to use the lady's retiring room. She’d learned very quickly to only pretend to sip her tea most of the time, lest she be forced to rudely flee the room when desperation took hold.
"I dearly enjoy a horseback ride," Lord Francis was saying.
Dahlia blinked, realizing that she’d already lost the thread of the conversation; it had only just begun.
"What kind of horse do you prefer to ride, Lord Francis?"
Dahlia fervently hoped that he hadn't already answered the question with his statement. Across the room, Rachel snickered into her book as if she suspected how disinterested Dahlia was. It was one of the cons to how well Rachel knew her— she could read when Dahlia was merely being polite.
Still, Lord Francis ticked off many of her requirements, and she was determined to give him as much of a chance as any other man.
Dahlia suspected he’d singled her out because of the color of her hair.
The Francis family was invariably blond, and Dahlia secretly wondered if their large inheritance was somehow contingent upon continuing that tradition down through the generations.
"Lord Holt to see Miss Dahlia Warrington," the butler intoned from the doorway once more.
Dahlia's eyes flicked up. Lord Holt smiled at her charmingly, ignoring Lord Francis’s presence as if he were no more than a decorative vase on the table beside her.
"Miss Warrington."
Lord Holt had also brought flowers—tulips, which admittedly were among Dahlia's favorites.
She took the posy from him with a grateful smile and handed it off to a waiting maid.
Dahlia wondered how much time the servants spent trimming the ends of blooms, setting them into water, then bringing them back into the parlor as proof that the men had been here.
Though she liked flowers as much as any other lady, Dahlia sometimes was caught by the perfunctory nature of it.
These tulips could have been chosen just as easily for any other lady in the ton.
Though she appreciated the sentiment behind the small token, she was also keenly aware that it had taken little thought or effort.
The fact that she liked tulips was just a happy coincidence, not planned from Lord Holt’s prior knowledge.
Lord Francis and Lord Holt settled on the topic of horses, and Dahlia became a bystander to the conversation, adding an interested hum or nod and a charming smile whenever one of the gentlemen looked at her, which, as the conversation progressed, was less and less.
Even though she smiled, Dahlia wondered what the men's reaction would be if she suddenly stood and made for the door. Would they notice? Would her sudden movement jar them out of their inattention? Not that she blamed either of them for speaking to one another.
Courting was often boring—not at all what she'd expected when she first started out. It was trivial conversation after trivial conversation, where she would have preferred to hand each man a pointed questionnaire to fill out at the door.